


Your Better Half

by BlueThorne



Category: DmC: Devil May Cry
Genre: Family Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-01
Updated: 2019-08-01
Packaged: 2020-07-28 09:40:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20061919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueThorne/pseuds/BlueThorne
Summary: There's never a dull moment when raising two Nephilim, especially when one of those two Nephilim is Dante, and he has a bright idea.Written for DMC Gen Week





	Your Better Half

**Author's Note:**

> I love the reboot family, and I love writing Sparda, so here are those two things.

A row of little fingers appeared at the edge of Sparda’s desk first, followed by a pair of bright, wide eyes under a mess of black hair. Sparda pretended not to notice, his gaze trailing over the letter in his hands. The lack of response didn’t go over well with his sudden audience.

“Hey! Dad!”

Folding the letter, he looked up at his son properly. Dante’s chin rested on the desk’s corner as he swayed from one foot to the other. No magic nor chains could have held him still for a moment. He seemed to have far more energy than his little form could contain. “You don’t need to yell, Dante,” Sparda said, though his tone was light instead of scolding. “I’m right here.” 

If Dante heard what his father said, he didn’t acknowledge it. His voice still filled the study to its high ceiling. “Dad, angels can fly, right? They can all fly? Like, they got wings and stuff.”

A smile tugged at Sparda’s lips. “Shouldn’t you be asking your mother this instead?”

Dante hummed a low, annoyed note as he set to bouncing on his toes. “Come on, Dad. Just say!”

Judging by that reaction, Sparda had to guess that Dante knew his mother wouldn’t like something about the question. It seemed innocuous enough, though. “Yes,” Sparda said. “Angels can fly. Most have wings, but not all.”

“Mom’s got wings.”

“She does.” But she rarely showed them. On one hand, Sparda thought it a shame to keep something so beautiful hidden. On the other hand, looking at them made his eyes start to dissolve, and if he were to come into contact with a single feather, it would melt his skin like acid. Luckily, the boys were spared that effect thanks to her blood running in their veins, and Dante would beg her to unfurl them at every opportunity. “That will hurt your father’s eyes” did not dissuade him in the slightest.

“So she can fly!” Dante threw his arms in the air, his eyes gleaming. 

“She can.” Sparda gave a slow nod, still wondering what this was all about. Before he could ask, Dante raced from the room in such a rush that his sock-covered feet slipped out from under him at his attempt to swing around the door frame. 

“Vergil!” he yelled as he caught himself with his hands and hopped up to keep running. “He said yes! I’m right!”

“You are _not!_” Vergil’s voice jumped in pitch, clearly offended. “You’re wrong!”

Sparda’s brow puzzled. Dante was usually wrong in whatever the twins were arguing about at any given time, and they were always arguing about something. For once, though, Vergil was wrong. Of course angels could fly. Both boys knew that. What of it? Sparda felt as though his sons were testing him with more of those evil riddles from the book Eva had gotten them. Nothing could get wetter and dry at the same time! That was preposterous!

Giving in with a huff, Sparda rose from his seat to trail after the sounds of the barking argument. 

“It’s not going to work,” Vergil said. Though Sparda couldn’t see the two of them, he knew Vergil was standing with his arms crossed and a scowl on his face. 

“It will! Dad said I’m right.”

Sparda couldn’t match an exact stance to Dante’s tone, but he knew it well, and his pace picked up to a run. That boasting voice always preceded Dante trying to show off, and if Dante were showing off, he was doing something dangerous. 

“Nuh-uh!” The sharp sound of Vergil’s shoe stomping onto the upstairs landing sent Sparda into a full sprint. “Da-ad! Tell Dante he’s wrong!”

As Sparda turned the corner, down the hall he caught sight of Vergil in the exact pose as expected and Dante trying to find his balance on the banister overlooking the first floor. “He’s wrong he’s wrong he’s wrong!” Sparda’s words blurred together like a tape on fast-forward, but that didn’t stop Dante from taking a hop off the banister. 

Time roared to a silent stop as demonic power tore Sparda’s human form apart. Horns smashed through his skull, and his spine shattered itself to pieces to reform his tail. The wooden railing crackled and strained as his weight crashed into it. With a squeak of surprise, Vergil stumbled back away from his father. 

Sparda’s tail struck out like a snake, catching Dante around the middle and yanking him back up to his father's grasping hands. Collapsing to his back, Sparda felt for the first time a trembling that had infected his whole being. Even facing down Mundus had never scared him so much. As he lay there trying to steady his frantic demonic instincts, he kept Dante held to his chest just to reassure himself. 

The force must have torn all the air from the boy's lungs because Dante’s gasps for air were strained. Instead of speaking, he gave a whine like a wounded dog.

“I told you it wasn’t going to work,” Vergil said, his voice soft with anxiety instead of snark. Crawling closer, he reached out a hand and curled it around his brother’s. “If you’re hurting, you have to heal, okay? Remember how Mom said?”

The light from Dante’s back wasn’t bright, but it felt to Sparda like standing inches from a fire. He had to shut his eyes against it. With Dante resting against him, though, he could feel his son’s ribs crack back into place. Once they’d mended, Dante took a real, gasping breath for the first time. 

“Sorry, Son, I didn’t mean to hurt you,” Sparda said, reaching up to run his hand through Dante’s hair in what he hoped was a soothing gesture. “But you would have been hurt far worse if you’d fallen.”

“Thought angels fly,” Dante murmured. Healing must have sapped all of his energy because he wasn’t moving. He lay collapsed against his father’s chest, his eyes heavy. 

“They do, but I do not, and you are both demons as much as you are angels. I’m afraid my blood kept your wings from you, but you’re Nephilim. You’ll have abilities beyond what your mother or I could ever dream.”

“Oh.” Disappointment sank into Dante’s face. “So I don’t get a tail neither?”

A laugh burst from Sparda. “Why would you want a tail?”

“Hang from stuff. Catch people. Tails are cool.”

“But they rip your pants,” Vergil said. “Now Dad’s got a big hole in his pants.”

“You weren’t supposed to see that,” Sparda muttered. “Let’s just all agree to not tell your mother about this, alright?”

“M’kay,” Dante said as he slipped toward a doze. 

Vergil cocked his head to the side and blinked at his father. “But she’s gonna know anyway. Mom knows everything.”

“I know she does, but let your old Dad dream.”


End file.
